Muera la revolucion!
Kartathia Manor, the estate of Lord Geophreigh Smitherbodkins, is one of the few things on Corellia that has remained untouched throughout the fighting. It stands high on its hill, aloof and austere, a memory of the Corellia that was, the Corellia ruled by kings. This time is over, but those noble families still have their pride, and judging from the estate's grandeur, it's obvious that Smitherbodkins has more than his fair share. At the moment, he sits at his desk in the library, his head bent over a stack of papers as he dots the i's and crosses the t's for his acquisition of the CEC. When it comes to business, no one is more thorough, and at least he's able to get something done while he waits for the answer to his call for assistance with his little...problem. Outside the room, a visitor approaches. A Zabrak in his early thirties, about two meters tall, face covered with the customary tattoos of his race -- mostly designs created by parallel lines. Many of his are jagged, lots of diagonals, with slight variations in line widths. Standing outside the door after the house servant disappears again, the pilot pauses and looks around. This is a nice place; could be a worthwhile job. He finally lifts a hand and raps twice on the heavy wood. At the knock, Smitherbodkins looks up, his somber expression melting into a genial smile, though the visitor has not yet entered. He places the stylus in its stand, straightening the stack of papers and rising to his feet. He wastes no time, striding quickly to the door and opening it with a rather dramatic flourish. His eyes fall on the Zabrak, and his smile widens slightly as he takes in his fearsome visage. This was turning out better than he had hoped. "So good of you to respond to my communication," Smitherbodkins says, bowing to his visitor and sweeping an arm toward the chair in front of the fireplace. "Please, have a seat. Would you care for a drink? My valet's Randoni Yellow Plagues are not to be missed." As the door opens, the pilot's furtive eyes quickly take in his host's appearance. Fancy -- no getting around that. The Zabrak steps into the room as he's invited, again looking around, up, taking in the high ceilings and impressive showiness of this dwelling from a time past. "Well, I heard there was a job," he answers, spinning slowly as he nears the center of the room until he's facing Smitherbodkins once more. He gives half a second of thought to the drink offer, then turns his palms toward one another in a hands-only sort of shrug, "Sure, I'll take a drink." The pilot's manner is casual, his voice quiet. Though his eyes are sharp, his carriage seems like he's paying only half attention, perhaps more lost in the wonder of his surroundings than the dueling and parrying of a possible payoff. He wanders toward a seat and drops into a deep, leather chair that engulfs him like a throne. "The guy I talked to didn't have many details on the work," he prompts. "Ah, yes, of course," the gentleman responds, moving back toward his desk and pressing a button on it, then turning back to face his guest, "the work. Well, it's a bit delicate, if you take my meaning. Of course, I have complete confidence that you're up to the job." Strange, since he's barely even met the being. Perhaps 'delicate' is code for 'immediate.' "A CEC shipyard was recently attacked by a certain party with whom I've been having a disagreement." His tone is still friendly, though now his smile doesn't quite make it all the way to his eyes. "I'd like to have a chat with him. I need you to find him, and if at all possible, bring him back." He takes a seat in his own chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee as he regards the Zabrak, "Of course, if it's impossible, his destruction will be enough. But I shall double the reward if he is brought to me alive." At that moment, the door opens and a Kubaz steps into the room. "Sir?" the diminutive being requests, standing at complete attention. "Ah, J'Eeves! Yes, a drink, if you would, for my guest, Mr..." and Smitherbodkins raises an eyebrow, waiting for the being to state his name. Or not. "Meissa," the Zabrak answers, eyes moving slowly to process the butler. "It's funny," he goes on, gliding past the 't' without pronouncing it, "they told me you were looking for a pilot. Sounds more like you need a bounty hunter. Kind of a big difference between those two things." He glances at the executive before his gaze flashes away again to watch J'Eeves. The elements of the beverage catch the room's lights as it's poured, and the pilot absently cracks the knuckles on one hand. "It sort of complicates things, you know?" Smitherbodkins waves a hand vaguely in the air, "Pilot, bounty hunter...could one become the other for hte right price, Mr. Meissa?" His gaze is locked on the Zabrak, scrutinizing his features, though what he intends to find is anybody's guess. "I assure you, it will be worth your while. However, if you wish to depart, please feel free, and no harm done." If he were trying to bore a hole in his visitor's skill with nothing more than his eyes, it would at least be an even one. The Kubaz finishes pouring the drink, bringing it carefully to the Zabrak and presenting it to him with a bow. "I hope it is to your liking, Sir," he says quietly, with that diffidence of a servant bred for his place for generations. The pilot doesn't seem fazed by the stare. But... honestly, he might be too zoned out to notice it. Meissa reaches up and takes the beverage with a nod to its presenter, "I'm sure it'll be fine. Thanks." Drawing the drink into his lap, the Zabrak cradles the rocks glass in one palm and steadies it with the other while his eyes settle on a bust near one of the bookshelves. "I could probably get the job done. How worth my while are we talking?" Smitherbodkins' expression doesn't change, but it does seem to come more easily to him with his guest's tacit acceptance. Now it was just a matter of the payment. "Should you accept the job, you will leave here today with 10,000 credits on good faith. Bring me proof of his destruction, and you shall receive 25,000 more; bring him to me alive, and you will receive 50,000. Is that acceptable, Mr. Meissa?" He leans back, steepling his fingers in front of him. He doesn't -quite- hold his breath while he waits for the answer, but he's close. "I say fifty dead, one-hundred alive," the Zabrak counters. As he continues, he almost seems to be thinking out loud, doffing his head to one side as if he's having the conversation with that carved head on the other side of the room. "You're asking me to go beyond the skill set I was called here for. I could get killed. Not to mention, you're an upstanding businessman. Not one of those bait-and-switch used ship salesmen working on a commission." The counter offer brings a chuckle from Smitherbodkins, and he doesn't speak for a moment, regarding the Zabrak with a new respect. After a moment that stretches to just this side of awkward silence, he says, "Very well. Fifty dead, one hundred alive. You drive a hard bargain; perhaps after this business is concluded, we can talk about a more permanent position for you." He stands, beginning to pace the room. "The target is G. S. Qwynt VIII, former Prex of the Direx board. He has stolen the CSA Star Destroyer and is now styling himself as leader of the Prex Liberation Army." He barely manages to push the words out, his nose wrinkling in distaste. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removes a datacard, handing it to the Zabrak. "This is his last known location. He should not be far away from there; his pattern has been to stop, refuel, and whip the denizens of whatever backwater he happens to be closest to into a violent, if ineffective, frenzy." His steps pause, eyes finding his guest once more, "Are you up to the job?" There is no hint of expression changing on Meissa's face, but inwardly, the pilot swears. Given the quarry and the fortress, he could have asked for significantly more. The Zabrak's hand acknowledges the offered datacard before his eyes do, reaching out to take the thing. Then he finally looks up and regards the CEO directly. "Ten thousand doesn't do me a lot of good if I'm not," he answers. His chin dips in a nod one pause later, "I'm up to it." "Excellent." The word is breathy, almost a sigh of relief. However, now that the business is done, he seems to notice his guest's rather inattentive expression, and it gives him pause. He watches the Zabrak, lips pursing. Well, if he'd made a mistake with his choice, too late to do anything about it now. "I shall await word from you one way or the other. No need to communicate until the job is done, unless you have reason to do so. I do not feel the need to keep constant tabs on my associates." He reaches a hand to the Zabrak to clench the deal, ever the gentleman. Turning his eyes from the executive's face to his hand, Meissa regards it -- not long enough to be rude -- then wipes the cold condensation from his palm and reaches out to grasp it. At the same time, he both shakes the hand and hoists himself from the depths of his seat with it. "We have an agreement, then," he pronounces, now on his feet. "I'll let you know when then job's done." Not quite ready to be hauling someone out of his seat, especially someone as substantial as his guest, Smitherbodkins puts one foot forward quickly, planting himself more firmly as a counterweight with a rather surprised expression. If he thinks something of it, he doesn't voice his thoughts; simply says, "Very good. I wish you the best of luck." Though his expression hints that his thoughts have already shifted to the next fire to put out, he strides to the door, opening it for the Zabrak with a bow, "Until we meet again, then, Mr. Meissa." With a dip of his head, Meissa acknowledges Smitherbodkins' dismissal, "See you then. You have that money ready, alright?" One end of his mouth quirks briefly upward, and then the pilot gives a last, long look at the room around him -- back to mellow. Turning, he strides toward the door, depositing the unsipped cocktail glass beside the bust before letting himself out.